


And Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas Now

by vega_voices



Series: Come Rain, Come Shine [33]
Category: Murphy Brown (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Journalism, war zone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 10:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16952268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vega_voices/pseuds/vega_voices
Summary: “Serbia. Again. At Christmas. Just like last year.” Murphy stood up and walked over to the fireplace, watching the last of the embers that refused to go cold. She didn’t want to be emotional about this. She knew this was part of the deal. She’d spent her own share of Christmas mornings in war zones.





	And Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas Now

**Title:** And Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas Now  
**Author:** vegawriters  
**Fandom:** Murphy Brown  
**Pairing:** Murphy Brown/Peter Hunt  
**Rating:** It’s grownup time now (this means sex, children). Also, mentions of warzone violence.  
**Timeframe:** _Brown in Toyland_ (season 7)  
**A/N:** Trying to figure out exactly how long these two are together is like trying to solve quadratic equations or something. But it’s their first Christmas and well, I get points for trying to make it romantic, right?  
**Disclaimer:** Diane, Candice, Warner Bros. - they own this. I’m having fun. And dreaming of a Peter Hunt Christmas.

 **Summary:** “ _Serbia. Again. At Christmas. Just like last year.” Murphy stood up and walked over to the fireplace, watching the last of the embers that refused to go cold. She didn’t want to be emotional about this. She knew this was part of the deal. She’d spent her own share of Christmas mornings in war zones._

It didn’t take journalistic instincts to deduce that something was on Peter’s mind. On the surface, everything was fine. He’d brought dinner, helped set up the last of the Christmas tree and let Avery put presents under it, and even spent twenty minutes in the kitchen making sure every nuance of his mother’s hot cocoa recipe was perfect before the Barry Manilow Christmas special started. He sang along when Avery’s attention started to wane, helped clean up, he put Avery to bed, but Murphy could tell his mind wasn’t completely there.

Finally, half a cup into a new cup of hot cocoa, the fireplace slowly dying, only the tree lights on in the room and a candle burning on the coffee table, he leaned forward and took her hand. “Murphy …” His eyes met hers and she finally saw what he’d been hiding all night.

Shit.

Oh the look. The damned look. This was what she’d been avoiding all night. This was what she got for planning a perfect Christmas.

“What?” She took a breath and started over. “Where are they sending you?”

“Serbia.”

“Serbia. Again. At Christmas. Just like last year.” Murphy stood up and walked over to the fireplace, watching the last of the embers that refused to go cold. She didn’t want to be emotional about this. She knew this was part of the deal. She’d spent her own share of Christmas mornings in war zones. But this was their first Christmas together. It had just been into January last year when he’d kissed her and then vanished again for two months. Just after a Serbian sniper had tried to take him down. They’d survived his broken leg and being arrested by the secret service and his taking the news show and even her meeting his mother. It was stupid and romantic and she just wanted time with her boyfriend and her son on Christmas morning.

There was a shift, the couch groaning slightly, and Murphy could feel Peter move to stand behind her, his hands on her hips, and despite wanting to pull away and pout, she let herself lean back against his body. His arms moved around her, his hands up under her sweater just enough to be sensual while not pushing them too quickly.

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Disappointment flooded through her but she appreciated his not ruining the night with his announcement. Avery wouldn’t have understood. “When did you find out?”

“In my defense, right before I came over.”

That made her laugh. “Thank you for not putting a damper on Avery’s night. I just wish I’d known, we could have done presents with him. He’s so excited to give you his present.”

“I wasn’t sure how to broach it.” He kissed her neck. “I’m sorry, Murphy. This wasn’t in the plan.”

She let out a breath. “Isn’t it always in the plan, though? We don’t have desk jobs and December 25th is just another day on the calendar when humanity is hell bent on destroying itself.”

They stood in silence for a few minutes, absorbing disappointment, before she turned and wrapped her arms around him. The kiss was gentle, but expectant, a promise for later. He could sleep on the plane.

“Since I’m not going to get you on Christmas morning …” he said, his voice soft.

“Yeah. Definitely.” She smirked, watching his eyes go to the tree. “What did you get me?”

He laughed and pulled away, walking over to the presents he’d added under the tree when he showed up tonight. It made sense now - she’d expected him to bring them by on Christmas Eve, after Avery went to bed. She waited. He could gets his after she got hers. Only fair after all.

He came back with a box wrapped in shiny paper and Murphy sat down and tore into it, emerging with a top of the line camera that she’d actually been eyeing for a while. “Wow. Peter this … this is impressive.”

“I’ve seen the work you do with a camera. You’re one of the most underrated photo journalists I’ve ever seen and I don’t think you spend enough time …” he trailed off and she reached for his hand. “In that little village in the West Bank, when we were in the Middle East. I watched you take the camera and go snap pictures and your eye … you should take more credit for this work you do.” He grinned. “And knowing you? I’m surprised you don’t.”

Murphy sucked in a breath, her fingers trailing over the elegant body of the camera. “Peter this is so beautiful. Thank you.”

“So?”

“What?” She blinked and looked up at him.

“Why don’t you take the credit you deserve?”

She almost laughed. But all she could see was the ghost of an old friend sitting out under the awning of a house in Saigon, holding up her hands to frame a shot. _The thing is_ , Jessie was saying, _is that it isn’t about all of the composition that they teach you in class, you know. If your photo can tell a story, it doesn’t matter what’s front and center or in the lower quadrant. Tell the story. The rest frames itself._

“It’s a hobby more than anything. I mean, I know I can take a photo … but …” she looked into his eyes and took a breath. He deserved something real. “Remember that photo I showed you, the girls in Vietnam?”

“Yeah. The ones who were …”

“Yeah.” Murphy took a deep breath and pushed an errant strand of hair out of her eye. “I had a friend there. A good friend.” The word good lingered between them. Peter took her hand and met her gaze and suddenly, she knew he understood exactly what she wasn’t saying. The look on her face told her he’d had his own good friends over the years, ones who were more than friends but not quite lovers and he understood where her mind was and she felt the emotions she was so terrified to admit hit her with a force that she gasped.

She loved him.

She wasn’t sure how to tell him, but she loved him.

“Jessie was good, Peter. Oh, she was so talented. She taught me how to take a picture.”

Silence filled the moment and Murphy pulled the camera out, checking the settings. It was digital, which was a bit nerve wracking. She hadn’t made the jump yet. Still, it was beautiful and she clicked it on and watched the screen come to life.

“What happened to her?” He asked.

Murphy held the camera up, clicking open the shutter, watching as the feed searched for light. Peter’s face was hidden in shadow.

“The grenade that killed those three little girls I told you about that night in my office? It killed Jessie too.” She turned to the tree, watching the screen focus on the lights. “It always felt funny after that, acknowledging my own work. So I do it for me, not for the story. Not unless necessary. It’s part of what I put together when I’m in the field. But I’m not … I’m not her.”

He was close, so close, and Murphy leaned back into his arms. The way he held her reassured her she didn’t need to give details she wasn’t ready to give. Details about what, exactly, though? A kiss shared under the moonlight? Hands held after everyone had gone to bed? Nights spent holding each other not for romance but for safety, for consolation. They were two young girls in a war zone far from home and they were safer together than apart.

Murphy would never forgive herself for surviving when Jessie hadn’t.

“Thank you for this,” she said. “I love it. And I’ll use it.”

“The camera you use?” Peter’s voice was hesitant. “It isn’t hers is it?”

She smiled at his sudden insecurity. “No, that’s here in the library. I use it sometimes, but honestly, modern technology is in fact better than what we had in 1970. This is my first digital though. So. I’m scared.”

His grin was palpable, even in the dark. “Don’t worry. I’ll understand if you go back and forth.”

A laugh bubbled out and she turned her head for a kiss. “Thank you.” The kiss went from sweet to tender to building to passionate and Murphy almost dropped the camera as she moved it off her lap so she could slide into Peter’s. His hands were on her ass, pulling her tighter against him, when she broke the kiss and met his eyes. “I have something for you too, you know.”

“I think what you’ve got is pretty good,” he smirked.

She pressed down, grinding against his erection. “Well, okay. I’ll return it.”

His response was to tickle her, poking at her ribs until she pushed him away, giggling like a schoolgirl. She got up and moved back to the tree, kneeling down to tug out the huge box for him. “Come on over here,” she said. “I’m not carrying this back over.” As he got off the couch and walked to her, her eyes fell on a much smaller box with his handwriting and she reached for it, her hand shaking.

There was no mistaking the size of the box, the shape. She trembled, staring at it, terrified of what would be inside and how she’d react. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Peter knelt next to her and she looked at his posture and felt every single drop of blood drain from her body. Were they ready for this? But he settled into a cross-legged position and took her hand before picking up the box. “This was my initial present,” he said. “But then I saw the camera and I had to get you both.”

“Peter …” was that her voice? It was so damn shaky. “Small things in small boxes make me very nervous.”

“Here.”

He handed it to her and she tugged at the wrapping paper to discover not a velvet box but still a small one embossed with the logo from Tiffany’s. Jesus. Still terrified, she opened the lid to discover two teardrop earrings that sparkled in the light from the tree. Murphy wasn’t sure if the tears that touched her eyes were of relief or just the emotion behind the jewelry and she leaned forward to kiss him. “They’re beautiful.”

“You can’t tell in this light, but they are sapphire. I … your eyes. They reminded me of your eyes.” A gentle hand brushed back her hair. “I love how blue brings them out, and when I saw these …”

She pulled them from the box and fastened them to her ears. “What do you think?”

“That I want to get you upstairs into the light so I can see you in only these.”

She kissed him. “Soon,” she promised. “Soon.” Awkwardly, she slid her box between them. “When I bought this, I didn’t realize how timely a present it would be.”

Peter tilted his head at her before ripping into the package to discover the new crew set - handheld camera, wireless mics, digital point and shoot, notebook, and even a flak jacket she’d tossed in as a joke. Inside was a handkerchief she’d doused in the perfume he loved so much.

His thank you was the kiss and arms around her that pulled her into his lap. “I’ll use them over there,” he murmured before pushing her onto her back, daming both of them to sore backs and ibuprofen. She didn’t care. Not when he stretched out next to her and he was undoing the button on her jeans, sliding his hand down past the satin barrier of her underwear, tangling his fingers in her pubic hair. She was wet and wanting and she helped his hand on its mission by lifting her hips and tugging her jeans down. Peter’s groan and his fingers sliding through her folds told her she’d made the right move.

In her adult life, she’d never made love under the Christmas tree, and the fantasy - save for the discomfort of lying back on the hardwood - lived up to the hype. Her legs opened further, encouraging him, and Peter pushed two strong fingers into her body as he leaned up on one elbow and looked into her eyes. His thumb worked her clit, slowly, posessively, and for as much as she fought back against the notion that lovers belonged to each other, it was this moment that made her understand the concept. No one had ever moved her body the way he did.

“Murphy …” Peter murmured, his hand slowing.

She opened hooded eyes and met the slow smile he was giving her. “We’re a bit old for sex under the tree, hmm?” They both laughed and Peter slipped his fingers from her body. His eyes kept hers as he lifted one finger to his mouth and licked it clean. Her body flushed.

“Well, for what I want to do to you …” he smirked, “we might at least want some pillows.”

“You get home before I take the thing down,” she said, getting awkwardly to her feet, “and I promise a night of passion on a few body pillows.”

“It’s a deal.” He groaned as he joined her and Murphy grabbed her jeans before turning down the tree lights and leading them both up to her bedroom.

“Hold on,” she said as he pulled her back against him, his knee pushing her thighs apart. “Give me just a minute.” Murphy disappeared into the closet, digging out the sheer, white nightgown he liked. She piled her hair up on top of her head, double checked the earrings, and stepped back out into the light he’d requested.

“You are …” his eyes raked up and down her body and she moved to him.

“I am?” Murphy asked.

“Fucking amazing.” Peter shook his head. “It’s corny, Murphy, but I cannot get over it sometimes that you are with me.”

“I feel the same way.” She trailed a finger along his cheekbone and down along his chin. “I keep waiting for this feeling to go away, you know. I keep expecting it to just fade. But this is … I’m glad we’re together. Whatever it all means, I’m glad we’re together.”

He answered by kissing her, hard and fast, in all the ways the movies of their youths told them was romantic. She lost herself, her arms around his neck, his around her waist, and when she came up for air she lowered herself to the edge of the bed and slowly unbuttoned his jeans, easing the fabric down his hips, glad that he’d had the foresight to shuck his boots earlier in the night.

“Happy to see me?” She teased as her fingers stroked him through his jockey shorts.

“You have no idea.” His voice, breathier than usual, huffed out the words as she worked him, letting the friction of the fabric taunt his nerves until she took pity and pulled his erection free. Her hand wrapped around his girth, stroking, before she placed her lips to the seeping head. “You don’t have to …” he moaned, one hand on her shoulder, steadying himself.

She knew he didn’t expect it. He knew that giving head was really her least favorite sexual act and he never looked at her askance when she didn’t swallow the rare times he lost control and couldn’t pull back before climaxing. She didn’t mind with him because he didn’t grab her head, he didn’t fuck her skull, he didn’t treat her like some blow-up toy there for him to dump into. No, he took her hands, he looked into her eyes, and never was it a tit for tat expectation because while she wasn’t really a fan of putting cock into her mouth, he loved making love to her with his.

So she worked him, slowly, dragging her lips up the sensitive tissue, working his balls between her fingers. He was hot, wanting, and wouldn’t last much longer if she kept this up. The pressure on her shoulder warned her and Murphy leaned back, resting on her elbows, watching him pull himself back together. Two slow, deep breaths and his emerald eyes met hers and instinct parted her legs.

At times, they were fast and frenzied. Peter loved pushing her up against the wall, spinning her around, taking her from behind. Quickies in their mutual offices were a lunchtime past time and they were experts on understanding just how long Avery would be down for his nap. The rush was as much in the expectation of being caught as it was the need to satisfy lust and longing and Murphy knew they both got off on the adrenaline as much as the passion.

But Peter was also a master of seduction. Of trailing hands up and down her sensitive skin, his lips pressing into zones she’d never dreamed to be erogenous until he’d found them with his tongue. His fingers loved to explore her folds, finding each and every sensitive nub and point, before his mouth descended on her, kissing and sucking until she was screaming his name and she still had yet to come.

Tonight, she knew she was in for it. They had to make this last. The Balkans could keep him from her for months if they weren’t lucky.

He pulled her back up, his fingers working the clasp on the nightgown until it fell open, exposing her to him. Murphy scooted back on the bed, resting on the pillows, her hand making absent circles on her body while he finished undressing. He settled next to her and reached into the bedside table for the small foil package they used less and less anymore.

She’d be lying if she hadn’t thought about what it would mean if she did manage to get pregnant. But it was a notion kept buried deeply under the smashed walls around her heart. Some flights of fancy were never meant to be spoken into truth.

Murphy rolled the condom down Peter’s length, watching his face as she stroked him. Gently, she nudged him onto his back and straddled him, pressing her wet core against his hips and rocking back and forth. She could feel his cock straining and she reached behind her and gripped him.

“Babe …” Peter moaned. “I’m about to embarrass myself.”

“Never,” she teased. But she took pity on him and adjusted herself back, slowly bringing him inside her body.

They stilled, him arching against her, her resting her hands on his chest for balance. His eyes met hers and she saw, not for the first time, the unspoken emotions they shared. When would they get over it and just say it?

When would she allow him the rest of the way in?

For now, she moved, directing the action as he pushed up against her, groaning her name in a prayer and a curse and it wasn’t long before her hips were tightening and he pushed up into her and with one last thrust, he was over and done. Murphy moved on him still, reveling in how he grabbed her, held her. Their bodies were still joined.

He rolled them, pulling out, and she cursed at the lack of contact before realizing his goal was to slide down, further, pausing only to pull the used condom from his body and (she hoped) toss it to the trash. But his mouth was on her, his tongue in her, and she pushed against his face as his teeth pressed the lightest of nips to her clit before his lips started to work her and she crashed over the edge, screaming into his pillow as her body betrayed her and she quivered into nothingness.

Yeah. This would last her.

This and how he held her after, how sometime after midnight he woke her with kisses to her neck and fingertips along her hip and somehow she got him the condom before he slid into her from behind, one leg hooked over him as they moved together, moaning each other’s names.

It would last her.

That and how right as the sun rose, she woke to plant kisses along his chest and moved down his body, taking him in her mouth again until he pulled her back to him and sunk into her over and over again.

It would last her. How he held her after, his arms tighter than they had been ever before. “I don’t want to go,” he’d whispered before finally giving in and heading for a shower she’d ended up joining him in. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I don’t want to go.”

“I don’t want you to,” she’d murmured into his neck. “I want you here on Christmas morning.”

What was unspoken hung between them. They wanted to be there, together, every morning.

***

Christmas morning dawned broken and gray, the light of the sun barely breaking through the rising dust. What had been a city of joy and passion now stood in ruin, with the fighting only growing worse by the day.

What ends would people go to in order to kill each other? Peter had studied god and hell, still genuflected to a cross he didn’t quite believe in, and spent the better part of 20 years reporting on the hellscapes of humanity and he still didn’t understand how a human being could look into the eyes of a child and believe that bombing their landscape would make life better for them. Once, he might have found a way to justify someone’s argument, listened longer than he should have to some politician who sold war as a means to someone else’s end, but that was before Avery had pulled him to the shark tanks at the aquarium and held his hand at the zoo and run through the crowd to wrap his arms around Peter’s legs at the airport. It was before he scooped the little boy up and dropped him into the bathtub, singing the rubber ducky song, and dried him off, wrapped him in clean jammies, and read The Monster at the End of This Book over and over again, his heart swelling each and every time Avery squealed when Grover jumped from the final page. It was before Avery’s tantrum as Peter walked out of the house after breakfast, clutching his new stuffed duck to his chest, not understanding why Santa wouldn’t let him stay for Christmas. Once, war felt inevitable. Now, Peter saw it for what it truly was: a cruel joke enacted upon the souls of fathers. What man could send a child, his child, to die?

Standing at the window of what had once been a posh hotel in the middle of the city, Peter stared out at the coming day. Back in DC, Avery would still be asleep. Murphy would be wrapping presents - she’d probably latched on to one or two last gifts in her desperate need to make sure each and every moment in Avery’s life was perfect in the movie in her mind. Most of the time, it was amusing to watch her panic, but staring at the rubble before him, it also understood. Avery had everything he could ever need - a warm bed, devoted nannies, top notch education, every gift his spoiled heart desired. Anything to assuage the guilt his mother felt because she couldn’t be there every moment of every day, because her job pulled her from him, because the man who had fathered him saw fit only to send postcards. And now here Peter was, missing a holiday because work pulled him away. Didn’t Avery deserve someone who could be there all the time?

A slow breath escaped his lungs and Peter shook his head. If he and the other reporters did their jobs, if they kept reporting and kept telling the truth and kept creating a world where the people would hold their leaders accountable, maybe someday they wouldn’t celebrate Christmas across a phone line.

Outside, a woman made her way to the market that was opening. The rubble around them not stopping her. Two children trailed behind, holding hands, and never losing sight of their mother. Peter turned from the window, gathered his equipment, and headed out into the street. He’d meet his crew later. Right now, he needed to spend time with the moment, with the story. This wasn’t just about sending the right footage back and standing in front of the right bombed out building. This was about the people just trying to feed their children and right now he didn’t want three other guys following him around.

So he made sure his press badge was visible, grabbed his camera, and walked out into the near-empty street. It struck him just how loud the groan and creak of failing steel and concrete was in the early morning air. No where could you feel safe, secure. The few out so early looked up, looked to corners. Mothers yanked children from unstable piles of rubble, fathers put the errant ones on their backs lest they return to their mountains. No one spoke to him. Peter put the microphone away and started taking pictures. Across the market, a little boy with red hair and blue eyes looked over and grinned, waving to the camera. Peter froze until his mother swooped in, pulling her son from the eyeline of the armed guards who were now starting to take notice of the nosy American journalist and his shiny new camera.

Confidence kept him snapping, even while he kept the guards in his peripheral vision. Closer and closer they moved, not hiding their intention but not stalking through the market. They were smart, knew not to upset the populce around them. The quiet had everyone on edge. It would take only one errant movement to set everyone to shooting again.

Last year, almost to the day, he’d stood in almost this spot. The jeep had pulled up, his guide and translator laughing at him. American, he’d said. Welcome back to the zone. Jacob had always called him American. Always laughed at him as he picked him up from the airport before ripping through the bombed out streets, showing off new damage. Jacob had a wife and son and liked to tease Peter for his bachelor ways. “You will find a lady back home,” he’d said. “You will be a good father.”

The sniper bullet hit the dirt next to the jeep first that day. Jacob had pulled him down, screaming for cover. Wondering why Peter was so frozen as he stared across the street at the blonde who crumpled to the ground as a bullet pierced her chest. He’d screamed for Peter to duck as the bullets rained down, ignoring how his own hand was bleeding - or was it his head? It hadn’t been the first time Peter had been shot, but it was the first time he held the hand of a dying man while they waited for salvation. When Peter woke in the field hospital, Murphy’s blue eyes had still floated before him and every day he thanked the network brass for wanting him to go back and be checked out by “their specialists” because it meant he had finally done what he’d wanted to do since … well … the night she’d punched him, if he was honest.

But this time, his translator was meeting him later. There was no one there to run interference as the guard came up, ripped his press badge from the lanyard around his neck, and said, in a thick accent, “What do you think you are doing, American?”

Peter stared at the badge in the soldier’s hand, knowing there was no way out of this that ended well. The other soldier held out his hand, clearly demanding Peter’s identification and he handed over his credentials, knowing full well that if the soldiers took them, his only way out of the country was over the border in the dark of night. The two men rifled through his wallet, tossing his driver's license to the ground, and made a show of triple checking his passport. Peter said nothing, his understanding of the situation having long since taught him when to speak and when to hold perfectly still. If he said the wrong thing right now, he would be just another body with a bullet through its skull.

Though when they held up his picture of Avery, laughed, and tossed it to the ground, Peter almost lunged forward. Murphy’s face reminded him to hold still, stupid. So he did. When the soldier ground the photo under his boot, he bit his lip so hard he tasted blood.

“Your son?” The soldier taunted. “Sleeps in a warm bed? Safe with his mother?”

The crack in the armor was showing and Peter almost forgave them. Here was the story. Here he could connect. “Yeah,” Peter said. Behind the soldiers, he could see his crew had come looking for him. Unbeknownst to his potential captors, the cameras were rolling. “Yeah, he does. Safe and sound.”

“My son,” the soldier said, “died when rebels came to the door. Pulled him from his bed. Shot him in front of his mother.”

A year ago, Peter would have merely nodded. Letting the man talk. Now, all he could see was Avery being pulled from his bed, soldiers without sympathy going for him, killing with no regard for humanity. He met the other man’s gaze, took a breath, and asked the first question. “My son? He’s three. How old was yours?”

The silence stretched across the market. All eyes were on the American journalist and the soldiers who were out for blood. “Thirteen,” the soldier replied. “He wanted to be a teacher someday.”

“Right now,” Peter said, “mine wants to be a racecar driver. All he does is ride his car around the house.”

Please let this work. Please let this work. Please let this work.

“Mario Andretti?” The soldier asked.

Peter nodded. “He’s his hero.”

Again, silence.

“When you go to America,” the soldier said. “What story do you tell?”

Peter hesitated, searching for the answer that would make the most sense. “The one that needs to be told. The one I found when I was here.” He let out a nervous breath. “Sometimes, I talk to soldiers and sometimes to mothers and sometimes to kids. But I’m trying to tell the story and tell it to as many people as possible.”

“What do you tell your son? When you go home from being here, what do you tell him about where you have been?”

Peter met the man’s gaze with a new focus. “I tell him that I’ve been where people are scared. Where big loud noises go off and it isn’t like his toy gun that when people get shot, it hurts them a lot. I tell him where I’ve been, they want it to be better, but they aren’t sure how it’s going to happen.”

The soldier handed back his passport and badge. “You come with us,” he said. “Tell our story.”

Peter let out a breath, daring for a negotiation. “When we’re done, I have the freedom to come back here. I get to tell these people’s story too.”

The soldier’s partner still hadn’t lowered his weapon. Peter wondered if when the bullet hit he would feel it. He just didn’t want Murphy to see the footage. He needed her and Avery protected.

“As you Americans say,” the soldier said, “deal.”

Peter glanced back at the crew, who quickly lowered the camera before the soldiers could see what they had recorded and take it away. The soldier lowered his gun. “This way,” he ordered. Peter glanced down at the photo of Avery, torn and dirty, and stopped to pick it up. He could always get a new picture, yes. But until he got home, this one was staying with him.

***

“And, we’re clear! Good show, everyone!” John waved the crew clear and Murphy stood up from her spot at the anchor desk, watching the FBI agents lead her interviewee away. Another day, another arrest. God, she loved her job. Putting people in jail really was one of her favorite things and to do it the first show after Christmas? Well, in the old days, she’d have bought herself a bottle of Jack to celebrate. Now she kicked off her heels. This was Humboldt worthy, really. Well, every story she did was Humboldt worthy.

“Phil’s?” Miles called.

“Yes!” Corky shot back. “Oh, I could use something to eat. I was so nervous tonight I couldn’t eat before the show. I could just hear my granddaddy going on and on about Frank’s piece on gun control. I’m gonna be lucky to stay in the will!”

Murphy swallowed her smirk, but she still couldn’t help herself. The bait was right there and she was nothing if not a mouse, happily running through the traps among all of those who were dumb enough to assume she couldn’t remove cheese from a spring. “So what, Corky? You’ll lose out on the alligator gun and your mama’s hip waders?”

“Don’t knock the importance of an alligator gun, Murphy. You never know when it could save your life.”

Damnit. The girl was better than anyone ever gave her credit for. “Yes,” Murphy shot back. “I’ll make sure I keep mine right next to the bed so that when my shoes come back to haunt me, I can take them down.”

Corky flashed a grin. Murphy rolled her eyes. “You guys go on. I’ll meet you over there. I left my bag upstairs.”

“Hurry!” Miles called.

She dashed to the elevator, cursing herself for leaving things upstairs but she’d been in a rush to finish her notes before the FBI investigators showed up and ruined everything. The newsroom was quiet save for Terri, who was watching the feed, and Murphy slid into her office and stopped short when strong, familiar arms enveloped her.

“You’re back earlier than I expected …” she murmured, her fingers digging into his shirt. He smelled like the plane and dirt and something she wasn’t used to feeling from him.

Fear. He vibrated with it.

“Peter?” Murphy pulled back and looked into his eyes. God, she recognized that look. She knew it. “Peter what happened over there?”

But he didn’t answer. Not at first. He just stroked her face and took a shaking breath and then crushed her to him again and she let him have his moment because she knew all too well the terror that was making his knees shake right now.

“There was a moment when I never thought I’d see you or Avery again …” he murmured into her hair. “And now … now you’re here and I just want to hold you and I’m so sorry I scared you when you came in and …”

“You didn’t scare me,” Murphy pulled him closer. She knew this spiral. She’d sat through it alone more than once. It was a spiral that once led her deep into vodka bottles and endless packs of cigarettes and now led her to pace the silence of the townhouse at night, waiting for sleep. “And I’m right here and Avery is home sleeping. We’re okay, Peter.”

Silence. But he rocked her and she knew whatever he wasn’t telling her was big enough to well, probably take the Humboldt away from her. She was surprisingly okay with that. “Peter?”

“I’m sorry,” he stepped back. “I didn’t think I’d … I’m sorry.”

“What happened over there?” Murphy gathered her things and Peter helped her into her coat. Suddenly Phil’s didn’t seem so important. “You don’t look bruised.”

“Just …” he dragged his hand through his hair and she realized he was still shaking.

“Peter?”

Silence. The war zone crossed his face and she knew that whatever trauma she could conjure up, it wouldn’t meet what was flashing through his mind but at least he was back and whole and she’d be damned if Now and Tomorrow sent him anywhere for awhile.

“There was a little boy …” Peter began. “And he had red hair and …”

Murphy held her breath.

“I just couldn’t take my eyes off of him.”

She waited, knowing the story about the little boy he’d tried to save last year, the one that had sent him to seek the anchor job.

“He was playing on this pile of rubble and …” Peter’s eyes filled with tears. “And his mother just grabbed him and pulled him away before it collapsed and I just …”

“At least he was okay.”

“Is he though?”

She took his hand. There was so much more he wasn’t telling her. “He has his mother, it sounds like. And you, telling his story.” What else had happened? What wasn’t he ready to talk about?

“Are you guys headed to Phil’s?”

She nodded, her eyes drifting down to where their fingers were linked. “They’ll understand if I don’t show.”

“Actually,” Peter took a deep breath. “I could use some normalcy.”

“You mean Corky and Miles making eyes at you and Frank being … Frank?”

He surprised her. “Yeah. I could use some fries and some familiar faces right now. And then we can go back to your place and … is that okay?”

Worry flooded her, but she nodded. “Of course.”

He’d tell her, later. When the nightmare ripped both of them awake and he moved to sit in Avery’s room, watching him sleep. Over a late night cup of tea, he’d tell her about how he bonded with the soldier over the love of their sons, how he prayed the bullet would take him quickly, how he wanted to tell her goodbye and was so worried he’d never see them again. Later, he’d tell her how he’d been in far worse situations than this, but it was this one that scared him the most because as the gun leveled his head, he was sure he’d never see them again.

But now, he squeezed her hand. “Phil’s sounds great.”

“Then let’s go. I’m starved.”

His arm moved around her and they walked together to the elevator and out into the cold January night.


End file.
